


In Fair Verona

by being_alive



Series: Tumblr Requests [1]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: AU, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, I'm Bad At Titles, No Dialogue, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Third Person, Tumblr Prompt, mentions of Lord and Lady Capulet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 07:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18823690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/being_alive/pseuds/being_alive
Summary: When her father informs her that she is no longer to marry Paris, Juliet is overjoyed. Or at least she is for a short while, until he tells her the name of the man who is to be her intended instead.The Prince of Verona is to be her husband.She has met him only a handful of times, and those were just for very brief moments and some party or another hosted by her parents. Now he is to be her husband, and she has only a fortnight to prepare herself.





	In Fair Verona

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested by [shadowofthemoth](https://shadowofthemoth.tumblr.com)/[ellenoruschka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellenoruschka), featuring the prompts abditory and clinquant from [this](https://ilovedyouevenasisawyou.tumblr.com/post/184792366256/unique-words) list. Thank you again for the prompts! This was really fun to write and I hope you like it!
> 
> This can also be found on my [tumblr](https://ilovedyouevenasisawyou.tumblr.com/post/184866506956/how-about-abditory-andor-clinquant-for-escaliet).
> 
> Also, this is my fiftieth fic posted, so here's to that!!

When her father informs her that she is no longer to marry Paris, Juliet is overjoyed. Or at least she is for a short while, until he tells her the name of the man who is to be her intended instead. 

The Prince of Verona is to be her husband. 

She has met him only a handful of times, and those were just for very brief moments and some party or another hosted by her parents. Now he is to be her husband, and she has only a fortnight to prepare herself.

She graciously accepts the news with a smile on her face but when she is alone in her bedroom, she finds herself unable to decide whether to laugh or to cry. On one hand, she is no longer to marry Paris, and anyone has to be better than him, with his smug smile and his kisses to her cheek that always last several moments too long. Yet on the other hand, she is still to be married to a stranger. She has always wanted romance and love and everything else that comes with that, and instead she gets a man she knows next to nothing about, only his name and his title and a vague idea of his age.

She lacks even the slightest idea of what the color of his family is, she realizes, a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh tearing its way from her throat. Mercutio wears purple and Paris wears gold and the Prince himself wears tan. She sincerely hopes that the color is anything but tan, because the thought of spending the rest of her life in drab dresses is not a welcome one. A laugh bubbles forth from her then, at the absurdity of it all, because a Prince is the best possible option in all Verona for her to marry if for no other reason than his title, and here she is, wondering about something so inconsequential as dresses when her entire life as she knows it is about to change.

She does laugh openly then, hard enough that she cries, long enough that her stomach begins to hurt, and loudly enough than anyone who might hear her would think her mad.

When she finally calms down, she finds herself suddenly very weary, and lays down upon her bed without even bothering to undress. Not long after, she finds herself asleep.

In the two weeks between the day Juliet finds out the news of her betrothal and the day that she and the Prince are to be wed, the Prince only comes to see her once.

Her nurse leads her to her father's study, and smiles reassuringly at her as she opens the door for Juliet to walk inside. The door closes behind her and she looks around, only to find herself alone for the first time with the Prince. He is standing by the window, looking outside, his arms clasped behind his back. Juliet steps closer and he turns to greet her before gesturing to the table near the window. She sits in one of the chairs and waits for him to join her.

The Prince sits across from her, and as they talk about their days and so many other trivial little things, she finds herself unable to resist the urge to compare his features to that of Paris, because he is the only member of the Prince's family that she has seen for an extended period of time.

His hair is not the shimmering golden-brown of his nephew, but instead a rich brown shot through with shining silver. His face is not so long as Paris's, nor are his cheekbones so high. His lips are thinner and his nose has the appearance of having been broken at least once before, likely in his youth because it is very hard to imagine the man in front of her taking part in a fight, especially not with as tired as his eyes are. The tiredness of his eyes is one of the biggest differences between his features and that of Paris, along with the color, hazel instead of bright emerald green, molten brown around his pupils and flecked curiously with gold throughout.

To her surprise, her stomach does an odd little flip as she looks into his eyes, and she wonders if perhaps marrying him is really such a bad thing, especially as the tiredness there gradually gives way to softness, a softness wholly unfamiliar to her, a softness she has never seen in Paris's gaze and only briefly in Tybalt's gaze.

They talk for a little while longer, the topic changing briefly to their upcoming nuptials, and she wants to ask him just why he chose her to marry but being unable to find the right words, and then the Prince stands to leave. He takes her by the hand and presses a gentle kiss there. Heat floods to her face as she smiles at him, and then he releases her hand and strides to the door and then out.

Paris, however, comes by three times. The first two are to beg her parents, and the third is to beg her. She manages to avoid seeing him for the first two visits, but the third time he finds her on the way back to her room. Paris stops in front of her, reeking more strongly of wine than her mother on a Wednesday night, and falls to his knees.

His hair is mussed and his green eyes are bloodshot as he stares up at her, begging and pleading, asking her to reconsider or to run away with him or so many other things. She says nothing in response, simply forces a smile to her face as she listens to him, standing there and doing nothing but that until he lurches to his feet and grabs for her. At this change, she turns and runs, because she absolutely does not trust him like this, not now and especially not when he is as drunk as he is. Juliet can hear him stumbling after her, and manages to make it to her room, opening the door and darting inside before pulling the door quickly shut behind her. She locks it and then leans against it, breathing heavily. 

Paris pounds on the door and she startles, but all he does is continue begging and professing his love for her. Juliet can feel herself starting to sink to the floor and does nothing to fight it, simply pulling her knees up against her chest when her bottom hits the floor. A sob threatens to tear itself from her throat as she sits there, wishing there was somewhere for her to go, some way to simply vanish or hide and never come out, somewhere far away from desperately dejected suitors and princes and weddings and all of Verona.

Eventually Paris grows silent outside her door, but she does not dare open it again. She sits there for...well, she knows not how long she sits there, before the sounds of a sudden commotion come from outside of her door. There is shouting and then something bigger, much bigger, than a fist slams against her door, and then the sound of hurried footsteps running away. Slowly, Juliet stands and unlocks and then opens the doors. Tybalt is outside, blood red on his knuckles and a frown on his face, and Paris is nowhere to be seen. Another sob threatens to tear itself from her throat and then Tybalt embraces her without a word. From that day forward Paris comes by no more.

Three days before her wedding, she sees her dress for the first time. Her nurse brings it up to her room, a smile on her face, and excitedly calls Juliet over to see it. So Juliet does, leaving her embroidery by the window and walking over to her bed, where the dress is lain out. She gazes down upon it and her breath catches in her throat because of how pretty the dress is, pale lilac in color with fine gold embroidery on the bodice and hem of the skirt and sleeves. She bends closer and realizes that the design is of flowers, tiny ones, and looks closer to see the shape of rose blossoms crafted from the shining golden thread.

Thoughts come to her unbidden, thoughts of what the Prince will think when he sees her and if he will think she is as beautiful as her nurse says she will be. Her face flushes and she hurries to assure her nurse that she likes the dress, because truly she does, while she mentally admits to herself that she hopes the Prince likes it too.

Juliet finds herself thinking of the Prince more and more during the few days remaining before their wedding. She still would rather marry a man of her own choice, a man she knows and loves, but the thought of him is becoming more and more tolerable, though that is not the right word, not really, because she doubts that she would feel the flickers of this nervous excitement if the thought was simply tolerable.

The remaining days pass quickly, and before Juliet knows it the day has come and she is taken by her mother and her nurse to be prepared for her wedding. She is changed out of her nightgown and the into her wedding dress and her hair is elaborately styled and pinned up out of her face. Her mother fixes the golden net upon her hair, tiny amethysts shimmering in place of the rubies that were once there, while her nurse dots rouge upon her cheeks. After they finish, Juliet turns and looks in the mirror, only to find that she scarcely recognizes the girl, no, the woman looking back at her. 

The eyes, deep brown and full of uncertainty, are unmistakably hers, but the rest is unfamiliar, because she has never been this beautiful or this old, her hair has never shined near as bright a gold as the net in her hair and the embroidery on her dress, and she has never looked this much like a woman and not a girl, not a child, even though she is one and has been since her last birthday. Her nurse asks her if she is ready, interrupting her study of herself, and Juliet nods, slowly, her heart in her throat.

She walks down the aisle on her father's arm, and then she is alone at the altar with the Prince and the priest. She and the Prince say their vows and exchange rings and then it is time for the kiss. Her heart beats wildly in her chest and heat rushing to her cheeks as the Prince bends down to her height and presses his lips to hers.

At some point during the celebratory feast afterwards, the Prince turns to her where they sit, and tells her of how beautiful she looks and how happy he is to have her for his wife. There is something akin to affection, no, _adoration_ in his hazel eyes as he lays his hand atop hers, and she smiles.


End file.
